


Gatsby, Guns and Gold

by Crackerjackz



Category: Great Gatsby - F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby (2013)
Genre: 1920s, Adventure & Romance, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Backstory, Bootlegging, First Person, Gun Violence, Inspired by The Great Gatsby, M/M, My First Fanfic, Mystery, Nick's POV, Period-Typical Homophobia, Read this in school, Really rich people, Slow Burn, Somebody Lives/Not Everyone Dies, Swearing, That orange juicer tho, The police are somewhat involved
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-07
Updated: 2019-06-20
Packaged: 2020-01-06 12:06:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 19,121
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18388112
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crackerjackz/pseuds/Crackerjackz
Summary: I was not really clothed appropriately, but the grim-faced butler was nowhere to be seen, so I opened the door. The image I saw before me had strange effects on my psyche. Death was on the doorstep, quite literally. I was looking straight down the barrel of a Colt Police Positive .38, which had been positioned so as to be at the eye height of whoever came to answer the door. My gaze traversed the length of the gun and then to the face of the figure holding it. The identity of the person holding me hostage sent shock, guilt and then fear coursing through me. But the most surprising thing was that the man on the other end of the pistol looked just as rattled as I was.“You’re not Mr. Gatsby,” said George Wilson.





	1. A Proposition

**Author's Note:**

> I read the Great Gatsby in my English class and watched the movie(s) about a month ago. I couldn't get enough of Nick and Gatsby together, so I did what any sensible person would do: I turned to fanfiction. I've read a lot of cute one shots but I haven't seen a lot of good fics with multiple chapters. So if there is a demand, I am happy to supply it for the good of the community. I've been working on this during breaks at school and over the weekend, and the first chapter is finally finished! This fic starts right after the big fight towards the end of the book, when Nick leaves Gatsby waiting at Daisy's house. Enjoy!

As soon as I turned my back on Gatsby doubt crept into my mind, but it was a small intruder at first, so I ignored it. A taxi was waiting for me at the end of the drive, and once I got in it, I resolved not to think of the others who were drifting in and around the Buchanan mansion. It was an almost impossible task, but the passing scenery served as a distraction. If West Egg was a brightly-lit circus of splendor, then East Egg was a type of beautiful graveyard. Lovely, but silent and cold, the ornate edifices of the wealthy were stacked on the hills like mausoleums. Nightlife was nonexistent, and there were no guests flitting in and out of the houses of elite for midnight revels like they did in West Egg. This thought brought me back to the memory of Gatsby’s parties, and to Gatsby himself. Disappointment and frustration started closing in on me again, but luckily this moment coincided with my arrival at my destination. I was forced to become fully functional in order to clear the hurdle of human interaction. After paying the driver, I retreated to my bungalow, grateful for the chance of respite from the drama that still shimmered, like the stifling heat, in the air.

My shoes were assaulted by the dewy thicket that was my lawn on my way to the front door, and when I got to the porch the cuffs of my pants were soaked. I opened the door of the cottage and busied myself with removing the damp shoes as quickly as possible. The silence inside the house was thick like a heavy blanket, muffling any sounds that came from outside. I stood up, shoes still in hand, and stared down the hallway that led to my bedroom. It was a dark tunnel stretching infinitely into the distance, leading to an unknown fate. This black cesspool seemed to radiate static, amplifying the impassioned voices of Daisy, Gatsby and Tom that raced each other around a track carved into my brain. Fumbling for the light switch, I thrust my left hand out and felt the wall. I found the switch and promptly flipped it in an attempt to banish away the darkness that lay before me. Nothing happened. I flipped the switch again, and again. But after a few minutes it became apparent that my struggle was in vain, and I was left with the sad conclusion that the light must be broken. My shoes did not accompany me on my journey to the kitchen, but were instead left by the umbrella stand. In the kitchen, moonlight shone through a window, revealing the forms of countertops and cabinets. But it was a different kind of light I desired now. There should’ve been a flashlight hiding in the drawer underneath the sink. With a cursory glance at the place where my target was probably hiding, I yanked the drawer open violently and rifled through the utensils. The incessant clash of silverware berating my ears was so loud I thought it would wake the neighborhood. When the ear torture became too much for me, I stopped.

_This is ridiculous. I’ve lived in this house for several months, I don’t need a flashlight to walk down the hall. Why did I think of one in the first place?_

The thought of Gatsby crossed my mind again, but I shoved it to the back of my consciousness as I shoved the drawer back in its place, and tried not to think about anything. The business of not thinking is a remarkable phenomenon. Oftentimes people are told they need to think more. And yet the moment you tell someone not to think about something, all they can think about is that something. This is what was happening to me, and it was troubling. But at that moment, I needed rest more than closure, so I exited the kitchen and ventured down the hall to my bedroom. My jacket had been abandoned by the time I reached the end of the hall, and my tie began to loosen just as I reached the door. Soon the rest of my clothes were flung into a pile in a corner by entryway. I didn’t bother to close the door and instead stumbled into bed. Drawing the sheets over myself, I endeavored to hide myself from the world and all the people intent on making my life a hell.

\----

When the delicate short hand of the ludicrously ornate clock on my nightstand (a present from my Aunt Shelby; my relatives somehow figured a plethora of fancy clocks would help me succeed in life) reached the roman numeral five, I could stand it no longer. I threw off the covers and staggered over to my dresser. The night before had been long and tortuous. Just when I had almost managed to lull myself to sleep, some new, urgent thought would strike my mind like lightning. Voices slithered like snakes through my head and whispered words and phrases I’d heard over the course of the day, creating a mess of nonsensical hissing noises. I must have stared at the ceiling for hours. When eventually I was forced to accept that I was not destined to sleep that night, I promised myself that I would not rise before five. Any time before five would not have been an appropriate hour to make a house call. But now the subtle chimes of the clock released from my torment. I dressed quickly and and hurried down the hall, shoving on my forlorn shoes which waited in the hall. The shoes were still somewhat damp and water oozed up between my toes unpleasantly with each step I took. This unpleasant fact didn’t stop me from reaching my goal, however. As soon as my front door was flung open, I practically flew to the doorstep of Gatsby’s mansion. Its entryway was just as grand and imposing as the rest of the house. Lions carved into the molding stared down at me disapprovingly. It was possible that the same expression would be found on Gatsby’s face when he saw that I had come to intrude upon his privacy. But I figured my message was urgent enough to justify my early appearance, so I reached for the knocker. It was relatively small for such a grandiose door, but it produced a loud sound that I found sufficient to draw some person who would permit my entry. This person was in fact, the grave-faced butler whom I had seen at Gatsby’s house before. There was an air about him that made me feel nervous.

“What do you want?” The man’s low, gravely voice made the query sound menacing.

“Is Mr. Gatsby in?”

“Who wants to know?”

“Mr. Carraway- Nick Carraway. I’m sure he’ll want to see me.”

“Alright.” The butler shut the door in my face, which was rather rude.

_“Wolfsheim’s people.” That was what Gatsby had said._

I had a hard time believing that any of Gatsby’s new servants used to work in the hotel business, as he had claimed. Anyone with such an impolite manner wouldn’t last very long at a respectable hotel. As I was pondering where else the servants may have come from, the door in front of me swung open with a sudden jerk. The butler made an ambiguous gesture which I figured meant that I was allowed inside.

“Mr. Gatsby is in the Daffodil room,” he stated.

The butler guided me through a maze of hallways to a small salon with walls painted light yellow. He disappeared back the way we had come once I had stepped inside. In the middle of the room, Gatsby sat on a blue and white couch with his back to me. He had not heard me come in, so I took a moment to examine the surroundings. Pressed flowers hung in frames on the walls and glass cabinets filled with fine china and porcelain lined the space. This particular room had been on the tour of the house I had taken with Daisy, another world that Gatsby had created for her enjoyment. Satisfied with my analyzation, I turned my attention to the man inhabiting it.

“Gatsby?”

He sat up with a jolt and turned around to face me.

“Nick.” His smile was strained yet sincere. He looked somewhat haggard and suspected that he had had a rough night.

“So? Last night?” I asked.

“Nothing happened. At about four o'clock she came and turned off the light, and I felt like there was no use in waiting there any longer.”

“Oh.” I didn’t quite know what to say next, so I said nothing. Gatsby looked like he had something to add, but he didn’t speak either. The silence between us grew.

Abruptly, Gatsby bit his lip and said, “Can I get you a drink, old sport? You look...well, rather awful.”

“I do?” I hadn’t checked myself in a mirror in my haste to reach Gatsby. Running a hand through my hair, I said, “Alright. But only if you have one too. You’re not looking so hot yourself.”

He chuckled, but didn’t object. He poured two glasses of whiskey and handed one to me. We both tipped our glasses back and took big swigs. To me, this was a surprise and yet not a surprise. From personal experience, I know that every man has his breaking point. Even the strictest followers of temperance need something to warm their souls in their darkest moments. Still, Gatsby’s willingness to partake in drinking signaled that the situation was dire.

“I’ve been worried about you, Gatsby.”

“Yeah?” Gatsby glanced in my direction, taking another sip from his glass.

“I was up half the night thinking about it.”

“About what?”

“Your car. I’m almost certain the police will find it.”

Gatsby looked at me with an almost amused expression. “You’ve been worrying about my car, old sport?” His use of the endearment annoyed me.

“This is serious. You could be arrested,” I persisted.

“I told you earlier, the chief commissioner owes me a favor.”

“We’re talking about manslaughter. The police will want a conclusive investigation.”

Gatsby’s gaze drifted over to the french doors that led onto the veranda. Across the bay, that omnipresent green light pulsated faintly.

“They might not trace the car in the first place, but even if…” Some thought took hold in Gatsby’s mind, preventing him from finishing his sentence. He turned to me.

“What do you think I should do?”

I was a bit surprised, but gratified that he had decided to listen to me.

“I think you should go away for a while,” I offered.

“Run away?” He scoffed at the idea.

“No, not run away, but it would be nice to go on a little trip.”

“But I can’t leave Daisy here, not now when-”

“She could go with you.”

“But do you think she’s capable, with what happened yesterday?”

“Daisy needs a break, Gatsby. And you need one too. You’re looking a little rough around the edges. A vacation might be fun.”

“Her husband could be an obstacle,” he mused.

“We could pretend that it would be just me and her. Then when we come back here and you could join her instead,” I said. I could see that Gatsby was considering it.

“Alright,” he said finally.

“Alright, we’ll try it.”

“Excellent.” I grinned, happy that I had succeeded in my task.

“I have a house in Lake Placid. We could go up there for a few weeks.”

I wasn’t shocked to learn the Gatsby had a second residence. Many of the wealthy people I had known had summer homes. My family had a second estate in Duluth.

“You could take her to Niagara Falls,” I suggested.

“That would be romantic, wouldn’t it?” he agreed.

“Anyhow, we’ll have to see what Daisy thinks.” Gatsby stood up.

“I’ll call her straight away.”

“Gatsby, it’s only five o’clock. She’s probably not even awake,” I reminded him.

“Oh. Right.” He sat back down awkwardly.

“I hadn’t thought of that.” His unnecessary explanation gave me the sense that he was at a bit of a loss for words. We sat in silence while I tried desperately to think of a way to change the topic of conversation.

“Would you come with us, Nick?”

“I don’t think I can. I’ve got work.”

“You could take a week off.”

“An entire week? Without prior notice? I’d be fired for sure.”

“I’d be happy to help you out. Maybe I could send a letter to your boss, invite him to one of my parties.” Gatsby said this without much weight, and the fact that he could talk so casually about bribing my superiors aroused my suspicion. He had never explained how he continued to accumulate wealth, though I assumed that it was through some shady business. Frankly, I had no desire to go on the trip with him and Daisy. I still remembered my unpleasant visit to Tom and Myrtle’s apartment, and I did not want to be an awkward third wheel again.

“I appreciate your...assistance,” I replied, searching for the right word.

“But I actually like working, and I prefer to earn my own money.”

“You like working?” Gatsby’s fascination was clear. I had invented the image of Nick Carraway, the hardworking individual, as an excuse, but hearing Gatsby echo my words I realized the statement was true, to a certain degree.

“I think...I think it gives me a sense of purpose. It keeps me focused.” I hypothesized. Gatsby frowned.

“You do come from money, don’t you, old sport?"

“My father made a fortune in the railroad business. He and my mother still live in Saint Paul.”

“So you wouldn’t have to work if you didn’t want to.”

“Well, I suppose so. But I think I would get bored, having all that free time.” Gatsby laughed at that, and I had to agree that I had sounded rather stupid.

“And I wouldn’t like relying on my parents for my income,” I added, trying to make myself seem more practical. Gatsby sobered up a bit.

“Yes, I can certainly understand that.” His eyes fixed on a speck of dust that floated out the window. Something about that dust speck must have dissatisfied him, for he frowned at it and gulped down last of his whiskey.

“Unlike you, I’ve never liked work,” he began, “probably are a result of the fact that I worked my ass off when I was younger.” He got up and breezed over to the dresser, where he re-filled his glass. He picked up the decanter and looked at me questioningly.

“Oh, no thanks.” His last statement had bothered me, and I decided to give voice to my doubts.

“Didn’t you inherit-”

“Inherit all my money? No. The only thing I was meant to inherit was some god forsaken farm in North Dakota and a ramshackle pile of sticks intended to be a house.”

“So your family wasn’t from San Francisco?"

“Did you really believe that story I told you, old sport? I mean- it was kind of ridiculous.” He laughed again, and I joined in.

Surprisingly, I wasn’t mad at all. The story he had previously concocted was a bit far fetched, and this fact had stuck in the back of my mind. There were plenty of uncertain details surrounding Gatsby’s life, and that made him alluring to many people. And as for the lying, it was not an unforgivable crime, particular because it was for a worthy cause. If the upper crust of East Egg knew that Gatsby had started off life dirt poor, his chances of marrying Daisy and coming out of it looking respectable would be nil. Even average people cared about pedigrees. I remembered how Myrtle had disavowed her husband because he didn’t know about “breeding.” As if human beings were animals forced together for the single purpose of producing superior offspring.This view of the world disgusted me, so I generally tried not to think about it. The sound of Gatsby’s voice crashed into my train of thought, preventing me from having to think about the sad state of marital affairs any longer.

“Yes, I was born as low down as any man get get,” he said with relish, evidently delighting in deriding his former self.

“Your parents were farmers?”

“Some of the most unlucky farmers in the midwest.” Gatsby sat down next to me.

“Our farm was plagued by a whole host of problems. Drought, poor soil, pests, you name it. Each time a new hardship came knocking, I would plead with my parents to abandon the place. Head for the cities. They never gave in, though. I hated them for that. I always thought I was destined for greater things than farming, you see. Eventually I decided that if my parents were determined to die in that miserable abode, they could, but I was going to seek my fortune.”

“You left?”

“I did. I was awfully naive back then. It pains me to think about it.”

“But you did succeed. Since, you know-” I gestured at my surroundings. Gatsby smiled.

“It took a lot to get here.” After a few reflective moments, I interrupted the silence.

“What did you do after you left?”

“You want to know more, old sport?” Gatsby asked, raising one eyebrow and giving me a sideways glance. Apparently it had not occurred to him that I would have any further interest in his past.

“Of course,” I replied. I was eager to clear away some of the mystery overshadowing the man.

And so Gatsby continued his narrative. It was a long story, but one that constructed a comprehensible timeline of his life. We must have talked for hours, and when we could see a rosy glow spread over the sky, we migrated outside onto the veranda. The sun arose over the sea, making the water shimmer, and the light of the ocean reflected onto the walls of the mansion, making it look as if the house had been dipped in gold fondue. In effect, my surroundings seemed unreal, and this made Gatsby’s story sound far away. When Gatsby finished speaking, I raised my glass.

“Cheers” I said. There was a small, satisfying clink as our glasses knocked into each other.

“Whatever for?” The reason for my proffered congratulations, which I had once held firmly in my mind, was eluding my grasp. When I failed to put words together to describe the forgotten feeling, I apologetically offered,“ I don’t know.” Gatsby looked at me with a bemused expression.

“I think you’re drunk, old sport.”

“Maybe just a bit,” I conceded.

A deep blue green was overtaking the gold in the ocean, expanding and making what had once seemed glorious ordinary. But the fact that the water had lost some of its brilliance didn’t stop the currents from raging and waves from crashing down, and the sea was no less powerful than it had been before.

“Daisy should be awake by now,” Gatsby interjected. The green light across the bay continued to glow, sending the ghostly spirit of Daisy Buchanan over the water and between us. I knew I wouldn’t be able to ignore the specter hovering at Gatsby’s shoulder for long, so I decided to acknowledge it and be done with it.

“You could call her,” I said, nonchalantly.

“You think so?”

“What time is it?” I asked. Gatsby glanced at his watch.

“A half hour past seven.”

“It’s an acceptable time to call,” I stated, “You can always try again later if she’s not awake yet.” Gatsby straightened up and adjusted his sleeves.

“Alright,” he said simply.

Making a 180 degree turn, he stalked off back into the house. I followed him down the hall in a solemn march towards the telephone. We passed the picture of Dan Cody, and I knew the photograph’s significance now. Many party guests must have walked down this hall, but very few of them had noticed the portrait’s occupant, sitting lonely and mysterious in its frame. But I didn’t stop to give the picture a closer look, and flashed by it just like all the other revelers had. Our destination was a sizeable parlor near the front of the house, and Gatsby made a beeline for the telephone on top of a side table as soon as we reached it. His fingers stretched towards the telephone eagerly, but then recoiled as he hesitated. The affliction of indecision had taken root in Gatsby, and it was instantly recognizable to me, as I had had many experiences with it myself. But he paused for only moment, and then snatched the receiver so voraciously it was if he was afraid it would slip away. We waited in silence for a response on the other end of the line. I didn’t hear the operator, but apparently Gatsby did.

“Hello. Can you give me the Buchanan residence?”

“Yes, the Buchanans of East Egg. Thank you.” We waited to be connected to the Buchanans’ telephone. Gatsby made a face at me. I shrugged.

“Yes, Hello. Could I please speak to a Mrs. Daisy Buchanan?” Gatsby listened for a few seconds, then frowned.

“Who’s speaking?” He looked at me and bit his lip.

“This is Nicholas Carraway. I’d like to speak to my cousin.”

Tom or some of the household staff were likely monitoring Daisy’s phone calls. It was rather amusing that Gatsby had pretended to be me. I couldn’t imagine a version of myself that talked so formally and called everyone “old sport.”

“Oh. I see.” Disappointment permeated Gatsby’s voice.

“Well, when she’s available, tell her I called.” The receiver made a loud clunk as Gatsby put it down.

“She’s not awake yet,” he said.

“You can always try again later.”

“Yes…” Gatsby sighed.

I noticed the chair and sofa cushions were embroidered with peaches. The way the mansion was decorated seemed to be at odds with the mood of its owner. Before I could make any further observations, I stopped and mentally shook myself.

_Why was I thinking about cushions or the colors of rooms? Why did any of these things matter? I had more important things to do...like work. Shit. I had forgotten about work._

“I need to go to work,” I said.

“Now?”

“Yes, now.”

_I was going to miss the eight o’clock train to New York. I was going to be late for work._

“I’m going to be late,” I said with horror. I was never late. Willing my feet to move, I stumbled towards the foyer. Gatsby followed me. I was too focused on getting to the door to turn around and look at his face, but I could hear the disappointment in his voice.

“You’re not leaving now, are you, old sport?”

“Gatsby, if I don’t leave now, I’m not going to make the eight o'clock train. That means I’ll have to wait forty-five minutes for the next one. I’ll be late. It would be a complete disaster.” My hand grasped the doorknob, and I pulled the door open.

“I doubt that being a bit late for work will result in a catastrophe.” A thread of annoyance had woven into the disappointment. I took a step out the door and down the stairs, then turned back to look at Gatsby, afraid that I had offended him.

“I apologize for leaving so rudely. I just don’t want to lose my job.” Gatsby was leaning against the doorway with his arms crossed over his chest.

“If it’s so easy to lose your job, maybe it isn’t worth keeping,” he countered.

“Maybe.”

Gatsby sighed, apparently dissatisfied with my ambivalent response. He ran a hand through his hair.

“I don’t mean to discourage you from working, old sport. I enjoy your company and would be sorry to see you go.”

As he said this, three realizations hit me in the space of only a few seconds. I was first reminded of the night when Gatsby and I had met. The way his eyes fixed on me like I was the only person in the world whose opinion mattered was exactly like how he had looked at me during the first grand party I had attended. This second appearance of “the look,” as I decided to christen it, could not be a coincidence, and it convinced me that there must be a part of Gatsby that actually cared about me as a friend. As I had learned at Yale, it was important to keep one’s guard up around the ultra-rich, since more often than not they turned out to be heartless bastards who just wanted to use you for some purpose. But everything I had seen and heard that morning had pointed in the opposite direction and “the look” was what made me sure of it.

The second thing was that Gatsby was an absolute wreck. The light pink suit he was still wearing from the night before was wrinkled, and his tie was undone, along with the top two buttons of his shirt. He had dark circles under his eyes and when I looked closely, I could see his hands were shaking slightly. Seeing these symptoms, I recognized that now was not a good time for Gatsby to be alone, perhaps even a dangerous one. In short, he needed help.

My last thought was that Gatsby had found what might possibly have been the fanciest way of saying “Please stay” that I had ever heard. For some reason, I found this charming.

I couldn’t stop myself from smiling, so I looked straight at Gatsby and said, “Alright.”

_Fuck work._

Gatsby’s reaction was almost comical. It was obvious that he had expected me to refuse.

“What?”

“I’ll stay.”

“But what about your work?”

“It can go to hell. You said it yourself, I don’t need it.”

“I wasn’t telling you to quit your job!”

“I’m not quitting. I’ll take a sick day.”

_Fuck work. This is more important._

I walked back up the steps and to the door. The dominant expression on Gatsby’s face was confusion, but there were other, indeterminate emotions resting there.

“You wanted me to stay, right?”

“Yes, but are you sure, old sport? You seemed determined to go.”

“Gatsby, you were right. I’d rather stay here with my friend than go do my crappy job.”

A golden smile spread over Gatsby’s face, erasing some of the exhaustion. He stood up and opened the door so that I could re-enter. In a gesture of benevolence, he swept his arm out to the empty foyer.

“Well then, come on in, friend.”

I stepped through the door and onto the black and white marble tiles forming a checkerboard in the antechamber.

“So, how shall we pass the time, Mister Gatsby?” Gatsby closed the door and put his hands in his pockets.

“You know, I haven’t used my pool all summer.”

“That would certainly wake us up.”

“Then why don’t we go for a swim?”

“Why not?”

_Seems harmless enough._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm always eager for feedback, so if you have any suggestions, please tell me. The pacing of the first chapter is a bit slow, but I promise it'll get more exciting in the next chapter. I needed to get over the first hill and find somewhere for the story to start. Thanks for reading!


	2. The Tangy Taste of Suffering

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nick joins Gatsby for a morning swim, but gets a lot more than he bargained for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had an entire week of free time to work on this chapter (spring break), so be warned, following updates will probably not be as frequent. Thank you guys for all the positivity! As promised, this chapter is a bit more exciting than the last.

_Hmm, not too sweet._

I took another sip from my glass, feeling the cool, tangy liquid on my tongue. I weighed the taste of the mimosa in my mind, trying to compare it to every other one of its kind that I had had the pleasure of drinking. It’s very easy to make a bad mimosa. You add too much juice, or too much champagne, and it doesn’t taste right. But I could find no faults with the one I was having currently. It was perfect, just like every other fixture of Gatsby’s domain. The man in question was reclining beside me. We were both sitting on the pool deck in cloth folding chairs; the kind that you would take to the beach. Between us was a small table on which sat a platter heaped with berries and hard-boiled eggs. Neither me nor Gatsby had felt very hungry, so we settled on a improvised breakfast made up of tidbits. Gatsby handed this plate to me now.

“Strawberries?”

“Thanks.”

I set my mimosa down and took the plate, popping a few berries in my mouth. Gatsby had insisted I borrow one of his swimsuits, but the bold white and navy stripes of the bathing costume I was now wearing made me feel somewhat self-conscious. I would have preferred to wear my plain black suit which had been left at home. Luckily, it wasn’t as hot this morning as it had been the day before. Grey clouds dominating the sky foretold the coming of autumn. To my left, sudden movement caught my eye. Gatsby stood up and stretched.

“I think it’s high time for someone to put this pool to good use,” he stated. I frowned. We had been sitting by the pool for barely fifteen minutes.

“Aren’t you supposed to wait to swim after eating? And for that matter,” I said, as I stumbled upon another unforeseen problem, “you’re probably not supposed to swim after drinking either.” Gatsby only grinned at me.

“Relax. you’re not going to drown because you ate half an egg and a few pieces of fruit.”

“But the alcohol?”

“You’re not falling down drunk. You’ve had two glasses, at most. You’ll be fine.” His lack of regard for personal safety was a bit disturbing. I put the tray of food down on the table beside me and got up.

“You can do what you like, but I’m going to be safe. I’ll just dip my feet in.” I sat down on the edge of the pool. Gatsby’s smile did not disappear. If anything, it grew a little.

“Suit yourself, old sport,” he said, and walked in the opposite direction.

I was curious to see what he was doing, but turned my attention to the task of submerging my feet in the water. The pool was cold, but not shockingly so. Suddenly, a black shape thundered past me and flew over the pool’s edge before landing in the water. A gargantuan wave rose up from the spot where the hurtling object had fallen, crashing over me and drenching me from head to toe. I was too stunned to move, so I sat there immobile and dripping wet. It only dawned on me that this unexpected assault was Gatsby’s doing when the water drained from my ears and I heard his laughter. My fears about the dangers of swimming were overcome by my determination to put and end to his cackling. I plunged into the water, no longer concerned with the temperature. Gatsby was still laughing when I swam over to him. Miniature tsunamis rippled from the spot where he had hit the water’s surface.

“That was not funny,” I sputtered indignantly.

Looking serious while treading water was a difficult task. Gatsby’s only response was to laugh harder. Fed up with his antics, I pushed my anger out and away from me in a wall of water, which splashed over his face. Now it his turn to sputter. Gatsby spit out water and returned my attack with one of his own. He slammed his fists down into the water, creating a huge splash that fountained over me.

From that moment onward, the onslaught was practically never-ending. It was one of the most absurd (though admittedly fun) water-fights I have ever engaged in. I generally try to avoid childish behavior, but I’m not above doing stupid things if the end result is enjoyable. And I did enjoy myself that morning. Eventually, my fingers and toes started to turn into prunes. Deciding that I wouldn’t be able to withstand the barrage much longer, I held my hands above my head in a unspoken sign of surrender.

“Truce!”

Gatsby, who at the the time was trying to scoop up as much water as possible in order to fling it at my side of the pool, stopped what he was doing. He nodded, and then sunk down in the water. The bottom half of his face was under the water but his nose and eyes were above it, and he reminded me of the alligators I’d seen in Florida. I giggled at the thought, then felt a sharp twinge from behind my forehead. Further investigation revealed that my whole head was buzzing unpleasantly. Alcohol was one suspected culprit, excessive action another. In fact, they had probably worked in tandem to create the sick feeling I was experiencing now. I had begun to feel nauseous in addition to the headache. Gatsby noticed me rubbing my scalp.

“Are you alright, old sport?” He looked concerned.

“Yes, I’m fine. I’ve just got a bit of a headache.” Somehow I managed to drag myself out of the pool, despite my growing affliction.

“I’m going to get a glass of water,” I explained, making for the stairs up to the house.

“Good idea. You’re probably dehydrated,” Gatsby agreed.

“Would you like me to get you one too?”

“Yes, please. Are you sure you’re fine?”

“Positively,” I lied.

It seemed like the trek to the kitchen was unbearably long, but I arrived at my destination in one piece. The sous-chef gave me a quizzical look when I asked for two glasses of water, but if he had questions, he did not ask them. Being an outsider in the kitchen made me the target of many stares, so I fled to a parlor where I could drink my water in peace. One cup wasn’t enough dispel my suffering, so I downed Gatsby’s as well. That meant that I would have to return to the kitchen, and I was hesitant to encounter the unfriendly eyes again.

_Why had I let Gatsby pull me into another mess?_

The thought bubbled up to the top of my consciousness and I immediately wanted to take it back. My current situation wasn’t Gatsby’s fault, not necessarily. My inner voice started to berate me.

_If you hadn’t drank so much or decided to fool around, if you had gone to work-_

But that rant was left unfinished, because at that point, the telephone rang. The ringing was not coming from the room I was in, but from one nearby. I ventured through the maze and found myself in the living room that Gatsby and I had visited earlier when he attempted to contact Daisy. The telephone waited for me expectantly. The receiver continued to shake and dance in place on top of the blank. Instinctively, I picked up the telephone and held it to my ear.

“Hello?”

“Nicky, darling, is that you?” The dulcet tones of my cousin Daisy (second cousin once removed, actually) floated through the telephone. Her voice was layered with heaps honey and sugar, and to my ears she sounded sickeningly sweet.

“Yes, it’s me,” I confirmed.

“You wanted to talk to me about something, is that right?”

“I did.” “But why did you call me from Gatsby’s house?”

“What?”

“The butler,” Daisy whispered, “the one with the crooked nose, told me that your prior call came from the residence of Jay Gatsby.”

“Oh yes, that.” I scrambled for some excuse that Daisy would believe. I didn’t want her to know I’d been conspiring to get her together with Gatsby again.

“And I tried calling your house first, but I didn’t get a response, so I figured I’d try Gatsby’s.” Her voice took on a mischievous air, and I could imagine her smiling into the telephone.

“What have you been up to, Nicky?”

“Oh, nothing. I was just out of sugar, so I came over to see if Gatsby had any.”

“You were out of sugar.” It was clear from Daisy’s tone that she didn’t believe me.

“Yes, I needed the sugar to...bake cookies.” I winced at the stupidity of my excuse.

_I needed sugar? I was baking cookies? This was the most implausible story I had ever come up with._

“I didn’t know you could bake.”

“Yes, I can! I can definitely bake cookies. In fact,” I offered, seeking to control the damage, “You should try them when you come over this afternoon.”

“And why would I do that?” Daisy spoke a little too flirtatiously for a married woman.

“So we can further discuss our travel plans.” I tried to match her level of playfulness.

“Are we going somewhere?”

“I was thinking we could go to up to Lake Placid or Niagara falls.” Daisy was silent for a while. I was afraid that when she spoke again it would be to reject my idea.

“There’s been so much excitement lately,” she stated. The statement did not condemn the idea, but did not convey approval, either.

“And that’s exactly why a little break would be perfect. Wouldn’t it be nice to get away from New York?”

“I suppose. And it would be only you and me?”

“Uhhh…” I hesitated.

“There was a possibility of Gatsby coming along.”

“Oh Nicky, I don’t think I can see him now.”

“Why not?”

“Well, after last night-” I stopped Daisy before she could utter some meaningless explanation.

“Don’t you love him?” I cut in.

“That’s just not a question I can answer right now,” Daisy tittered, dancing around my query. I didn’t want to push her too far, so I stopped prodding.

“Please think about it,” I placated.

“I will.”

“And I’d be delighted if you joined me for tea this afternoon.”

“Maybe.”

And then she was gone, with only the echo of that last word, “maybe,” left, unable to fill the place of a real promise. Gatsby would be unsatisfied with it, that was certain. I put down the telephone and dizziness washed over me. The world went red and blurry, and when my vision cleared, my eyes focused on a vase overflowing with small magenta flowers. The blossoms reminded me of something, but I didn’t know what. A second spell of dizziness took hold of me when I realized which memory the innocent flowers prompted.

_Myrtle. My God, Myrtle._

Death had been everywhere during the Great War. I had seen plenty of good friends get ripped apart by machine gun bullets or succumb to disease, and dozens of others had walked away with horrendous injuries. I was very lucky to escape with only a few scars and a broken wrist. In a sad way, the sight of dead people no longer phased me. But no person deserves a violent death. Myrtle certainly didn’t, no matter how foolish she had been. And I had just gotten off the phone with the person who had killed her. Daisy had expressed no guilt or regret during our conversation. I had invited my cousin, who was practically a murderer, to come over to tea and eat cookies and pretend that the world was all fine and good and nothing bad had happened. An impulse seized me, urging me to call Daisy and tell her that I would prefer that she not come over that afternoon, or any other afternoon, ever. But the ringing of the doorbell kept me from doing as such. At first, I ignored it. But the ringing continued, stubbornly.

_Why isn’t the butler answering the door?_

My distressed mind decided that at that moment the most important thing was that the ringing should stop. Apparently I was going to have to handle that myself. I did have a second thought, as to who could possibly be so determined to call upon the household, but the first thought took priority over it. I paused when I got to the foyer. I was not really clothed appropriately, but the grim-faced butler was nowhere to be seen, so I opened the door. And with that initial mistake, things started to go south.

The image I saw before me had strange effects on my psyche. Death was on the doorstep, quite literally. I was looking straight down the barrel of a Colt police positive, which had been positioned so as to be at the eye height of whoever came to answer the door. My gaze traversed the length of the gun and then to the face of the figure holding it. The identity of the person holding me hostage sent shock, guilt and then fear coursing through me. But the most surprising thing was that the man on the other end of the pistol looked just as rattled as I was. “You’re not Mister Gatsby,” said George Wilson. My mind went blank. I could not think of anything to say. Although I had fought in the Great War, I had never been held at gunpoint before. Any opponents who had gotten close enough to touch had used trench knives or bayonet blades. It would have been hard to shoot anyone with a bayonet at such close range. Quite simply, I encountered a situation I had never experienced before and I didn’t know what to do, so I froze. This probably saved my life. Wilson had a wild look in his eye, and most likely he would have shot me if I had made any sudden movements.

“You’re Tom’s friend,” he growled.

“Nick,” I volunteered, not knowing what I was doing.

“I don’t care what your name is. Where is he?” By this time I had come to my senses a little.

“Where is who?” Pretending to be dumb could earn me a little more time.

“The bastard who killed my wife. Where is Gatsby?”

“Um...he’s not here.”

“You’re lying.”

“Fine, he’s in the library,” I confessed, hoping he would take the bait. But Wilson only sneered at me. He took his gun out of my face and waved it at my chest, indicating the swimsuit I was wearing.

“I don’t believe you,” he said, “Take me to the pool.”

There was nothing else to do, so with a sinking heart I turned and started walking carefully back through the house. Wilson shoved his pistol into the small of my back. As we neared the kitchen, I veered to the right and casually knocked over a vase. Hopefully one of the servants would hear and come to investigate. It didn’t fool Wilson, though. He grabbed my arm and pressed his gun to the back of my head.

“No funny business.” His snarl was that of a starved dog. His grief had turned to fury, making him depraved.

We reached the pool, where Gatsby was doing laps. When he saw me he smiled, but that smile melted off his face like butter on toast as soon as he saw who was accompanying me.

“What’s going on?” Gatsby demanded.

“You!” Wilson roared. He gave me a violent shove that sent me stumbling down the last few steps to the pool. With a shaking hand, he pointed his gun at Gatsby.

“I know what you’ve been doing,” he seethed, “I know everything you’ve been doing.”

“Who the hell are you?” Though he was stranded in the middle of a pool and being held at gunpoint, Gatsby was still in control.

“Don’t pretend you can’t guess,” Wilson hissed. He was a rabid beast, rocking back and forth and showing his teeth. He was so unstable that at any given moment, he could have tossed aside his Colt and leaped into the pool after Gatsby.

“Myrtle Wilson’s husband,” I choked out.

“Myrtle?” Gatsby was still lost, lacking the knowledge needed to understand. Wilson fixed his hunter’s gaze on the lone target in the pool.

“You must really not have given a damn about her.”

Another explanation almost escaped my lips, but Wilson swung his pistol in my direction when he heard my first mutterings, silencing me. When he spoke again, it was with a kind of disgusted fascination.

“You killed her and you can’t even remember her name. I suppose you’re so loaded you can just afford to buy a new whore every time you bump off the last one.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Gatsby retorted angrily.

“Let’s see if you can remember.” Wilson fired his gun twice and I ducked. Both of his shots went wide. One whizzed over my head and the other shattered a flowerpot that had been placed on a pillar. Adrenaline soared through my veins, making me feel as if I’d been shocked by lightning. Gatsby’s expression told me he felt similarly.

“I assume you’re referring to the woman who was ran over last night,” he said, trying to regain his composure.

“The woman who **_you_** ran over,” Wilson corrected.

“I didn’t, I-” Gatsby paused, not wanting to incriminate Daisy. Wilson smirked, taking Gatsby’s silence as a confirmation of what he thought to be true.

“You know what I told her, I said: ‘God knows everything you’ve been doing.’ And now I know too.” Wilson paused to snicker again, still swaying unsteadily.

“You can’t hide from God, and you can’t hide from me, either.”

Something Wilson had said was sticking in my mind. It filled me with a dangerous curiosity.

“How did you find us?” I asked.

“Eh?”

“How did you know where to go, to find Gatsby?” Wilson was quiet.

“It was Tom, wasn’t it?”I was starting to put the pieces together. I could see how George Wilson had gone from grieving in his flat to threatening me on the doorstep.

“You went to Tom, and he told you it was Gatsby that killed Myrtle.”

“I knew he knew who the car belonged to. When he mentioned you having a fling,” Wilson addressed Gatsby, “that just helped me put it all together.”

“I’m sure Tom was very helpful in pointing you in the right direction.”

_And you must have seemed very helpful to him. The perfect weapon._

“Why do you care?” Wilson growled defensively. He was about to lash out again, but ripping away the wool over his eyes could be the only way to end the confrontation peacefully.

“Because he lied. Gatsby wasn’t having an affair with your wife.”

“No, no, don’t try to trick me. I heard enough to know that you-” Wilson jabbed his gun at Gatsby, who was still standing in the pool, “-you murdered her! If you couldn’t go on fucking her, you didn’t want anyone else to have her!”

“It was Tom. Tom was the one who was with Myrtle, I saw them together.”

“No! He took her away from me, he didn’t want me to have her! She was mine, and he took her!” Wilson was becoming increasingly hysterical. Perhaps telling the truth wasn’t the best course of action in this case.

“I promise, I can explain it all.” I took a step towards Wilson with my arms in front of me.

“Just give me the gun, and I can explain everything.”

“Get away from me!” Wilson screamed. He jumped back as if burned, though I didn’t even touch him.

“You’re part of it, too. You’re involved. You must have helped him!” Wilson looked strangely betrayed, as if he and I had been on the same side. Which was absurd, since he had been threatening to kill me the moment we had met that morning.

“How could I-”

“Shut up, shut up, shut up!” Wilson fired his gun again, this time directly at me instead of randomly. One shot went wide to my right, but another speeded by a few inches from my head.

“Nick!” A voice cried out in fear.

There was so much terror contained in that one word that I was afraid I had been shot. But looking down at my chest, I noticed no gushing wounds. Frantic splashes came from the pool. Gatsby was trying to reach me. My attention was focused on Wilson, who took aim at the moving Gatsby. Bullets hit the water around him and slowed upon entry, creating little trails of bubbles as they sank down into the depths of the pool. Wilson stopped firing and used both hands to line up his weapon in Gatsby’s direction.

“No!”

With a couple flying steps, I tackled Wilson, knocking us both to the ground. I tried to grab both his arms to pin him down, but he was writhing too much. I got a hold of the hand with the gun in it and started to pry it out of Wilson’s grasp. He twisted sideways and pulled the trigger. I felt something heavy knock into my right shoulder, as if I had been punched there. I gritted my teeth against the pain I knew was about to come and made another attempt at wrenching the pistol out of Wilson’s hand. He kneed me in the stomach, and I lost my grip on the gun. Curling inwards on myself, I fell to the side. Searing pain shot through my arm as I tried to push myself up, making me gasp. Hot blood had begun to drip down my arm, and red liquid was beginning to appear on the flagstones below me, but I ignored it. Again I tried to get up, but my arm crumpled as I put pressure on it, and I collapsed on the floor in a heap. My arm and shoulder were being stabbed by pain, which was spreading to the rest of my body. Lightheaded, I wondered why I was still alive. Wilson would have had more than enough time by now to shoot me again. I peered up through my agony and saw the butler, Gatsby’s butler, standing over Wilson with a gun of his own. Wilson was still sprawled on the ground, unmoving, and I had no idea if he was dead or not. At the moment, I didn’t particularly care. I lay my head back down on the cold pool deck and closed my eyes. Sticky blood was accumulating beneath my arm.

“Nick!”

I heard the sounds of wet feet slapping on stone. Someone was running towards me.

“Nick. Oh bloody hell, Nick. Fucking hell.”

Gatsby knelt next to me. He hooked his arms under my armpits and dragged me up into his chest. I groaned as a new wave of pain rippled from my shoulder to the rest of my body. My eyes started watering and I bit my lip to hold back the tears.

“Fuck. Okay. Stop the bleeding.” Gatsby’s head swung back and forth wildly, surveying the area.

“Okay, I’m going to need something to stop the bleeding, so I’m going to go get something. You stay here, okay?”

“Not much else I can do.”

Gatsby smiled at my joke, though his distress was still evident in his expression.

“Good man.” He laid me down on the ground gently, and I closed my eyes again, trying to master my own pain.

“Bloody hell.”

I heard cursing in the distance, and for some odd reason it made me feel like laughing. After an eternity, Gatsby returned. He helped me sit up and pressed a thick white towel to my wound.

“How are you doing?” He asked, examining my face with concern.

“I’ll be fine,” I assured him.

And at that exact moment, the universe (always conspiring against me) decided that it was a great time for me to pass out. The alcohol, the nausea, the worries and the pain all caught up with me. As everything faded to black, I lost control of my limbs and slumped into Gatsby’s arms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guess what, I actually did some research for this chapter. Here are some facts I learned:
> 
> 1\. The idea that you should wait 30-60 min to swim after eating is just a myth, so you can jump right in the pool after you have a snack. Or push a friend in ;)  
> 2\. Alcohol plays a part in a significant percentage of drownings. it slows the rate at which your brain processes information, so you can't react fast enough to save yourself. Swimming after drinking is very dangerous, so don't go near the ocean (or a pool) if you've had a few drinks.
> 
> Enough with the science-y stuff. I hope you enjoyed the chapter. Leave a comment to let me know what you think! I appreciate your feedback.  
> Oh, and Nick can actually bake. That's true facts.


	3. Secrets and a Saving Grace

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nick finally gets some answers, but know that he knows the truth, protecting it won't be easy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everybody! I'll be done with school in a few weeks so hopefully I'll have more time for writing. This was a fun chapter to write, but it took me a while to figure out where I wanted the story to go. I tried to keep this chapter consistent with the last two and the canon, but tell me if you notice anything. Enjoy!

My vision was partially obscured, allowing me to see objects but not their finer details. When I moved, the things around me changed and disappeared, making me doubt myself. Were the things ever there in the first place, or had I only imagined them? The bleak, undefined landscape surrounded me as I ran, looking for something concrete. Then the picture focused, but the image became too sharp, and my eyes stung. There was noise now too. It sounded like police sirens, and gunshots. Sirens and gunshots. My feet sunk into the ground, and it felt squishy and wet. I looked down at my feet and noticed I wasn’t wearing any shoes. Then I saw the trails of blood in the mud. My skin prickled. If I followed the rivers of blood to their source, what would I find? Ahead, bloodstains were left on the ground like tracks. As I walked, walls of dirt rose up around me, forming tall trenches. I ventured through the maze of earth, then turned a corner. A figure was propped up against a wall, leaking red fluid. I hurried over to the bleeding man in order to do what I could.

“Charlie?” I gasped.

“Nick? S’that you, Nick? He slurred.

“I’m here,” I assured him, falling to my knees. The mud squelched, still thick with blood.

Charlie was one of my compatriots during the war. A stomach wound, caused by a German bayonet, had been his demise. He had already been shot in the thigh a few weeks before, and he could barely walk. Now, he grabbed my hand as if it were the last handhold within reach that could save him from drowning.

“I d-don’t want to die, Nick.” He said the last syllable of my name as if it was a whispered secret being drawn out of him.

“I don’t want you to die either.” I couldn’t let Charlie die, not for a second time. I scanned the area for anything that could help.

“I need-”

“A needle,” proclaimed a booming voice, finishing my statement. I jumped and looked for where the voice was coming from, but saw nothing.

“Charlie, I’m going to look for a needle.”

“Don’t leave me. Don’t leave me, Nick.”

“I’ll be back,” I promised. Though it made my heart ache to do it, I extricated myself from Charlie’s grip and turned my back on him. I turned another corner and saw a lady lying on the ground. She was not bleeding, but her eyes were closed. She had brilliant auburn hair and was dressed in a uniform that was completely pink. Even her knapsack was pink. I hovered over her, not knowing what to do.

“Pardon me, miss? Would you happen to have a needle?” I asked. The lady said nothing.

“Would you mind if I took a look in your knapsack?” Still no response.

“Alright.” I bent down and searched through her bag. But there were no needles, bandages or thread. The only thing I could find in her satchel was-

“Scissors.” The same voice again.

I picked up a pair of scissors from a mound of dozens of them, and tucked them in one of the pocket of my shirt. I had been away from Charlie for too long, and it was making me nervous. When I returned he was still in the same place I had left him.

“Charlie, I’m sorry. I could only find a pink lady with a bag of scissors.”

“S’okay. You did your b-best.” Charlie’s voice was getting fainter and more gravely.

“Really?”

“Yeah. Don’t worry about me. S’okay.” He squeezed my hand and took a deep breath. With devastating surety, I knew it would be his last. He exhaled, and I squeezed back. The most heartbreaking thing about this was that the words Charlie had utter to me just seconds ago hadn't been what he said to me at the time of his actual death. Instead, he had repeated his wish not to leave the land of the living. After a few moments, familiar thoughts started returning to me.

_Who could do this? Who would kill a man that could hardly walk?_

The same white-hot fury started to fill me up from my toes to my the top of my head. A fire had been struck in my heart, and I was keen to do the same here and burn down the world around me. Pain ripped through my right arm and shoulder, my limbs licked by the flames of pure agony. The fire blocked out the rest of my view, turning the universe a blinding white. But then, the inferno was extinguished and I fell into darkness, alone in a black realm of space. Slowly, I was dragged out of the dark, until only the smell of smoke remained.

I opened my eyes, the smell hanging in the air around me. Bed sheets were twisted around my legs, and a soft mattress was beneath me. This would have been comfortable had my shoulder not been throbbing insistently. I sat up and winced at the pain. A bandage was wrapped tightly around my right shoulder and chest. Little pricks of blood were appearing on its surface. I touched the bandage and winced again, a fresh wave of pain rolling through my body. After the burning feeling subsided, I tried to get my bearings. The room I was currently in was a small, but pleasant bedroom. There were two windows on either side on the king-sized bed I had been sleeping in, but most of the light was being blocked by velvet curtains which were a deep shade of red. A little fireplace sat across from the bed, though no fire had been started in it. The smoke must be coming from somewhere else. An unoccupied chair with a pink blazer slung over it was next to my bed, with a glass of water on a nightstand. I climbed out of bed, careful not to use my right arm. At this time my memory was a bit fuzzy, some of it erased by trauma. I could remember being shot, and the pain it caused. I could also remember a swimming pool, and someone screaming. But I couldn’t fathom what I had been doing before and after being shot. My chief concern at this point was to get some new bandages and find someone who could explain things. I started toward the door, but stopped when I noticed that I was only wearing boxers. A fine silk robe was hanging in the closet next to me, so I grabbed it and shrugged it over my shoulders, hoping it could stop my shivering. There were also several writing desks in the room, and all of them were strewn with papers and folders. Documents had been left on chairs and sticking out of drawers. Some were even on the floor. Curious, I picked up a ledger off a desk.

_Four dozen shipments of bananas, July the 8th,_ read one entry. _Two dozen bananas, Three dozen of limes, July the 22nd,_ stated another. The most recent recording was from August 16th, a week before, concerning an amount of oranges that I was sure no person would be able to consume alone. By each entry was a signature in a looping cursive script. The name was familiar to me somehow, but I couldn’t attach it to a face. I traced the neat swirls of the letters. A part of my brain was pricked by the pain of remembrance and my finger paused on the tail of the letter y.

_Jay Gatsby._ Memories came rushing back to me and I recalled him, recalled Gatsby yelling my name. I remembered the crazed eyes of George Wilson as he accused me of destroying his life.

_Why would Gatsby be cataloguing shipments of fruits?_

Perhaps that was his current business, but I had a hard time seeing how trading in fruits would make a person rich. I picked up the ledger to examine it more closely when the door swung open.

“Nick,” Gatsby stated with some surprise, “You’re awake.”

“Are you selling oranges?” I blurted, then blushed. That probably wasn’t the best thing to say to my friend when it was the first time we had spoken since a nearly fatal experience.

“Oranges?” Gatsby said, puzzled. He noticed the ledger in my hands and immediately took a step forward, closing the door behind him. The renewed smell of smoke drifted into the room behind him.

“Oh, I was just organizing some old papers while I was waiting for you,” he said, as what I assumed was an explanation. He rifled through the papers on the desk, stacking them into piles with slightly shaking hands.

“How are you feeling?” Gatsby asked.

“I’m fine.” My original question still hadn’t been answered.

“Are you shipping exotic fruits?”

“It was an old business of mine. I told you, old sport, I’ve done a lot of things.” It was a lie and we both knew it.

“These entries are from the last few weeks,” I challenged. Gatsby looked directly at me, and in that moment I saw a light in his eyes that was equal parts fascinating and disturbing. He turned to me and held a hand out for the book. I hesitated, and he looked at me in surprise. He put his hand on the ledger.

“Give it to me.” He started to pull on it, and I pulled back.

“Just give it to me, Nick.”

“No!” I cried, with a bit more zeal than I meant. It was obvious Gatsby was trying to hide something, and at that moment the journal was all that was standing between me and his secrets. Gatsby gave me another incredulous look, then tore the book from my hands. I hissed in pain as my shoulder and arm muscles were torn and agony burned through me again.

“Shit!”

I recoiled and put my left arm on the desk to keep myself from falling over. The pain made me dizzy, but I was determined not to pass out and make myself look weak. When looked up at Gatsby, he was cringing so hard I thought his eyebrows were going to fall off his face. Stumbling over to the bed, I sat down and took a deep breath, cradling my right arm. Gatsby still had a hurt puppy look on his face that made me feel a bit guilty. I had to remind myself that I was the one who had been wronged. I felt drained and pathetic, and I probably looked it too.

“I’m sorry,” Gatsby said, biting his lip.

“God damn it, Gatsby! I’m not stupid,” I exploded, surprising myself again. Gatsby was still clutching the ledger.

“You don’t have to hide things from me. I’m your friend.”

“I know,” Gatsby responded. When he spoke again it more subdued, and he looked a little sad.

“You deserve answers, old sport. But there are some things-things about me that you might not like.”

For all his sophisticated charisma, Gatsby didn’t understand the first rule of society: all that matters is that you have money, no one cares how you get it. Except for the East Eggers. But being of the uppermost echelon, those people constitute a very small portion of society. A sly smirk crept onto my face as I chose my next words carefully.

“Gatsby, I’m not going to throw you over just because you’ve been making your money bootlegging.”

His reaction was priceless. Though there was no way to capture the moment, I tried to commit it to memory so that later I could replay it over and over in my mind. His eyes widened and his mouth fell open a little bit. It was a very dignified jaw drop, just like Gatsby. He was staring at me in such disbelief that I felt the urge to go look for a camera to take a picture, for surely he would remain there like a statue, still frozen in shock when I returned.

“Wha-What?”

He could barely form the words, I could tell. Despite the lingering pain in my shoulder, I cackled at his weak response. After a few more seconds, Gatsby was put together enough to form a full sentence.

“How did you know?” He asked, giving in with a slight smile.

“Oh, come on, it’s pretty obvious.” I was going to enjoy this.

“Obvious?”

“Free champagne? Mysterious billionaire? Most people have enough sense to put two and two together.”

“I knew those excuses I gave were too flimsy.” Gatsby sat down next to me on the bed, putting his hands together and resting them on his chin. He was still wearing his pink waistcoat and trousers, but his tie had disappeared.

“It’s a miracle the law hasn’t descended on this house,” he mused.

“Didn’t you pay off the police?”

“You don’t miss a beat, Nick.” I smiled at the praise.

Sometimes the amount of surprise people display when finding out that I am, in fact, an intelligent person and not just a wallflower is insulting. But the way Gatsby had acknowledged my intelligence was more like a pleasant rediscovery of something he already knew.

“Yes, I did bribe the police. But not every single officer or every station.”

“Policemen and politicians need to drink too,” I offered. Gatsby snorted.

“Was it really that obvious, old sport?” He turned towards me, frowning, as if there was some possibility that anyone could have believed his transparent stories.

“Gatsby, you have an orange juicer the size of a car. Who the fuck is rich enough have a giant orange juicer?”

I looked at him, trying to maintain a serious expression, and we both burst out laughing. Pain shot through my collarbone, bringing tears to my eyes.

“It’s not just for oranges, it’s also for grapefruits, and lemons, and...anything else that can fit in it,” Gatsby supplied through his giggles.

“Cucumbers,” I cracked. A cacophony of chuckles filled the room.

“Cucumber juice!”

When the laughter subsided, Gatsby wiped away his own tears.

“Nick, I can’t tell you how nice this is. I thought that if I told you about my...business, you wouldn’t want to associate with me anymore.”

_Associate with. God, his formality is adorable sometimes._

“I don’t care how you got your money. Hell, I don’t even care that you have money,” I said, surprising myself for the third time that evening.

“I know I should have trusted you sooner, but I didn’t want to lose the only real friend I have,” Gatsby explained.

I was touched, but I didn’t feel deserving of such kind words.

“I haven’t been that good of a friend,” I admonished.

“But you have!” he exclaimed.

“If anything, I’m the one who’s been a shoddy friend. I should’ve stopped Wilson from attacking you.”

“There was nothing you could’ve done.”

“But I feel responsible for the misfortune. If only I had stopped Daisy from running over that woman this wouldn’t have happened.”

“Gatsby. This-” I gestured to my bandaged shoulder, “-wasn’t your fault. And neither was Myrtle’s death.”

Gatsby bit his lip and said nothing, choosing instead to watch some flowers decaying in a china vase on a dresser across the room

. “I say, old sport...” Gatsby broke the silence, “...I do have a first name, you know.” He scrutinized my expression for a reaction, but I hadn’t quite comprehended his statement.

“I understand that calling a friend by their last name comes usually from a sense of camaraderie, but don’t you think all this ‘Gatsby’ business is a bit formal?”

“That is to say,” he hurried on, “maybe you could call me Jay sometimes.”

“Alright, Jay.”

“Does it bother you that I call you ‘old sport?’”

“Not really. I actually kind of like it. It’s cute.” I realized I had said much more of that statement out loud than I meant to, and fervently hoped I didn’t have enough blood left in me to turn my face red.

“So, Jay,” I said, trying out the new addition to my vocabulary. Perhaps my words would distract him from my expression.

“Are you going to tell me about those ‘oranges?’”

I was expecting Gatsby to protest, but he didn’t. He straightened and took on a more professional tone, as if I were a client of his.

“As I’m sure you could guess, the names of the fruits are code words for the type of alcohol being shipped.”

“So oranges are…?”

“Champagne. Bananas are rum, limes are tequila.”

“And potatoes are Irish whiskey?”

“Vodka, actually. It’s easier to get the whiskey from Canada. A lot less expensive.”

“You’ve got quite an operation going here,” I remarked, impressed with how organized It all was. I confess that I knew nothing about the economics of the alcohol industry then, but it was obvious to me that Gatsby’s business ventures were paying off.

“Yes, we do. And we’re an establishment of the highest quality,” he turned to me eagerly, “we don’t water down the liquor like the rest of those scummy rum runners.”

“I assume Meyer Wolfsheim is involved,” I mused.

“Yes. He helps me with the business, manages the shipments coming into New York.”

“How did you get started?”

“Honestly, I don’t quite know. Even when I was a young man, I had a finger in every pie. The only reason I noticed prohibition was on was because all of a sudden everyone wanted booze. My attention turned towards that simply because it was the operation making the most profits.”

“Tom said you used to sell grain alcohol over the counter at drug stores in Chicago.” Gatsby prickled unpleasantly at the mention of his rival.

“That man- no, he’s not even a man, he’s a nasty excuse for a human being- is completely tactless. There’s a certain finesse to these things,” he declared.

“His desire to confront me so openly surprised me into a small confession. I’m used to dealing with more skilled opponents.”

“But Tom is clearly a threat.”

“To my business? Probably not. But to my life- to our lives,” Gatsby reached for my left hand, “definitely.”

Once I would have considered Tom a friend, but the more time I had spent with him, the less I liked him. But now that he had sent a desperate would-be murderer to get rid of Gatsby, I was no longer willing to tolerate him. Though I knew Wilson’s wrath had been meant for Gatsby, being the victim of the attack I felt like the intended target. This was personal. Unlike Gatsby, I knew that Tom was a man, one who had made shitty mistakes just like all men do. But I couldn’t forgive him or Wilson for the hurt they had caused me and my friends. The sense of another impending conflict made me feel jumpy and a swarm of nervous butterflies took up residence in my stomach. The opposite thing was happening to Gatsby. His usual cool calm had settled over him again and he looked much more relaxed, almost serene. He gave my hand a gentle squeeze.

“You must be starving. Want some breakfast?”

“Yes. Absolutely, yes,” I said, relieved that I could blame the feeling of my stomach being torn apart on hunger rather than nerves. I frowned as I let go of Gatsby’s hand and stood up.

“Breakfast? Does that mean-”

“You’ve been asleep for an entire day, old sport.” Gatsby grinned and rose to meet me.

“That is...that is...inconceivable!”

Gatsby gripped the doorknob, then paused, looking back at me.

“I should warn you, the police are everywhere. Apparently they’ve decided to make my house their new base of operations.”

“I won’t say anything,” I promised.

The door swung open, revealing yet another grave faced man. They seemed to be everywhere, those serious, beaten down expressions. The person currently standing between me and a scrumptious plate of scrambled eggs was a stout man with a thick ginger mustache and goatee. He was middle-aged, my guess was around fifty. Neither tall nor short, he was of about average height. He wasn’t stout, not necessarily, but the word _well-fed_ came to mind.

“Nicholas Carraway, I presume. It’s urgent that I speak with you,” the police officer said, a hint of challenge in his voice.

“For chrissakes, Inspector McKenzie, could you wait until he’s had some breakfast?” Gatsby let a twinge of exasperation run through his last word, breakfast.

“Chrissakes?” I snickered. “You sound like my grandma.”

Inspector McKenzie peered at me as if he were looking through a telescope at something far away. Evidently he didn’t like what he saw, for he frowned and pursed his lips.

“Young man,” he began, a bit patronizingly, “this is a serious police investigation. It would behoove you to act in a manner more appropriate to the situation.”

“My apologies for my friend’s conduct, officer. He’s still feeling the effects of the anesthesia,” Gatsby explained.

I could remember no anesthetics. That said, I couldn’t remember much of anything that had happened after I had been shot. If it was a lie, it was a smooth one, one that McKenzie could swallow.

“Of course. My condolences, Mr. Carraway. I am Inspector Sean McKenzie, the sergeant in charge of this case.” McKenzie eyed Gatsby disapprovingly as he introduced himself.

Before I could respond, Gatsby interjected, “Perhaps you would like to join us for breakfast? You could question Nick afterwards.” McKenzie hesitated, not wanting to refuse and miss out on a good meal. Gatsby seized the opportunity.

“Our cook does really excellent sausages and mash, and there are always leftovers, so it wouldn’t be any trouble.”

Both McKenzie and I were practically drooling imaging the food. Gatsby had hit upon the officer’s weak spot. The expression on McKenzie’s face told me he just needed a little push.

“The baked beans are to die for,” I encouraged.

“Well...a short break wouldn’t hurt anyone,” McKenzie acquiesced.

“Fantastic, old sport!” Gatsby exclaimed, clapping McKenzie on the back. McKenzie didn’t seem too enthused by the gesture, but some of his previous gruffness had disappeared.

“Let me go tell Mr. Hawkins to set another place,” Gatsby called, making for the stairs leading down to the living rooms.

“I’ll come with you.” I didn’t want to be left behind with the policeman, for fear he might revert to his grumpy ways.

“That was brilliant,” I breathed to Gatsby as we descended.

“It really wasn’t. Just a few well-placed words.”

“You should be a politician. Or a diplomat.”

“You think?”

“Gatsb-” I stopped myself. “Jay. Jay, I think you could be the president of the whole goddamn country if you wanted.”

“Oh sod off, Nick.”

At the bottom of the stairs I paused to catch my breath.

“I’m serious. You’re a great negotiator.”

“Nick, I convince a man to have breakfast with us and you think I’m the greatest thing since sliced bread.”

“I think my stomach is just overly grateful right now.”

“Thank God. Otherwise how am I supposed to live up to all these expectations of yours?”

“Acquire sustenance for me and that’ll be one expectation fulfilled.”

“Good, because that I can handle.”

The quest for nourishment was on.

\---

After not just one but two plates of scrambled eggs, some bacon, sausages and baked beans, my hunger had been satiated. Gatsby had ordered a full Irish breakfast, and McKenzie was happy to finish off all the portions of mushrooms, tomatoes and potatoes that I hadn’t touched. When we had finished, Gatsby invited us to have tea in an adjoining sitting room. Though I had already downed several cups during the meal, I accepted the tea that was offered to me and added two splashes of milk to it. I had perfected the ratio of milk to tea after my third cup at the breakfast table. McKenzie savored his drink for all of about thirty seconds before he pulled out a notepad and paper to begin questioning me. Setting his cup on the coffee table next the thick leather armchair he was perched in, he shot a look at Gatsby that said _leave now_.

“Mr. Gatsby, would you mind giving me some time with the witness?”

“Of course. I’ll be upstairs in my study if you need me.” I could tell that Jay didn’t want to leave me to be interrogated alone, but he knew he couldn’t stay, so he excused himself politely and left the room.

“Now, Mr. Carraway. That is your name, correct?” This question felt somewhat obnoxious to me, but I reminded myself that the inspector was just doing his job.

“Yes. Nicholas Carraway.” “Mr. Carraway, I’m just going to ask you some simple questions, nothing too difficult.”

“Alright.”

“Could you first describe the incident?”

_How is that a simple question?_

“Well, I went to get the door, and when I opened it George Wilson was there pointing a gun in my face.”

“Who was George Wilson?”

“A mechanic. He had a shop somewhere between New York and West Egg, but I can’t exactly say where.”

“How did you know him?”

“I visited his shop with Tom Buchanan a few months ago.”

“The famous polo player?”

“Yes. We’re friends. His car needed some repairs.” It wasn’t a lie, not exactly. I didn’t yet know how much I should tell the officer.

“So what did George Wilson want?”

“He was looking for Gatsby.”

“Why?”

“He thought Gatsby had killed his wife.”

“Would that be Myrtle Wilson? Mr. Gatsby said that name was mentioned.”

“Yes, that was her.”

“Her description matches that of a woman who was run over a few nights ago by a yellow car.”

“Yes, I saw the aftermath of the accident as I was coming home from New York that night.”

“Oh, you did.” McKenzie made a note and underlined it, making me squirm uncomfortably in my chair.

“Why would George Wilson think Mr. Gatsby had run over his wife?”

“Because Gatsby also has a yellow car.”

“How would he know about it?” I shrugged, not wanting to get into the complicated details involving our fateful trip to New York.

“He’s a mechanic, he could’ve asked around.”

McKenzie pursed his lips and made another note, but thankfully he didn’t press the issue.

“What happened after Wilson confronted you at the door?”

“He forced me to take him to Gatsby. Oh, and I broke a vase so that someone would hear it.”

“And when he reached the pool Wilson shouted abuse at you and Gatsby.”

“Yes. Of course it was mostly directed at Gatsby. He shot at him a few times.”

“What did you talk about?”

“Talk? I would hardly call the nonsensical ramblings of a madman a two-way discussion.”

“Well, what did he say?”

“Stuff about his wife. I don’t know, I can’t remember everything.” Another half-truth.

On his notepad, McKenzie wrote something that looked like _memory questionable_. I’d gotten pretty good at reading things upside down.

“We also found bullets on the patio and the lawn.”

“He shot at me too. When he shot at Gatsby a second time, that’s when I tackled him.”

“And then?” This was the part where my memory got blurrier.

“I remember wrestling with Wilson. Being shot in the shoulder. Gatsby was there, and his butler. I can’t remember much after that.”

McKenzie stopped writing and re-underlined something. He took a moment to look over the bullet points he had made, a signal that our session was almost over.

“You account matches the other statements I’ve already gathered,” he said. I breathed a sigh of relief.

“But there’s just one thing I don’t understand.”

I braced myself for an unanswerable question, one that would peel back the facade of innocence and reveal the lies surrounding me. But I wouldn’t get to find out what it was that had puzzled McKenzie, for at that moment a fierce knocking came at the front door so loud that we could hear it several rooms away. The detective and I glanced at each other. McKenzie got up and left the room to investigate the disturbance, and I followed. Down the hall, the sound of the front door being opened could be heard. Shouts of protest followed.

“Ladies, please, this is a crime scene.”

“Don’t you fret about us, officer, we’re perfectly capable of minding ourselves.”

“What is going on here?” McKenzie boomed as he swaggered into the antechamber.

“I’m so sorry, Sergeant, I tried to keep them out, but they just slipped by me,” a younger policeman’s voice apologized.

Arriving in the antechamber myself, I finally got an opportunity to view the scene for myself. It was entirely as I had suspected. There they were, like two will-o-the-wisps who had breezed into the house, bringing with them a change of destiny.

“Ms. Baker. Mrs. Buchanan. Didn’t I tell you last time to stay away from this place?”

“Of course, Inspector,” Daisy breathed in her lyrical voice, “but we had an engagement here we simply couldn’t miss.”

“An engagement?”

Daisy was dressed in an airy cream colored dress that was paired with a light peach sweater and cloche hat adorned with satin ribbon and flowers of the same cream color. She floated across the room to slip her arm through mine.

“My delightful cousin,” Daisy gave me her most winning smile, “has invited us over for tea.”

McKenzie frowned at the two of us.

“He has?”

“Well, he did yesterday,” she amended.

“But I gave my word as a lady that I would come, and a lady never breaks a promise.” McKenzie sighed.

“Mrs. Buchanan, I appreciate your loyalty to your cousin, but men are doing serious work here.”

“But Inspector,” interjected Jordan, “don’t you know? Behind every good man is a strong woman. I think this place could only benefit from a woman’s presence, which it is sadly lacking.” Jordan lifted her eyebrows and clucked her tongue while surveying the foyer, as if the absence of women made the mansion deficient somehow.

“If you don’t let us in now, we’ll just keep coming back,” she said, crossing her arms over her chest. Jordan was wearing a white golf outfit complete with pants, a cap and an argyle sweater, which made her look tougher.

“Fine. You can stay for half an hour.” McKenzie decided to crack under the pressure.

“Excellent.”

Jordan strolled over to me and looped her own arm through my free one.

“Tea, Nicky?” asked Daisy.

“I’d love some,” I replied, even though I was a bit sick of tea at that point.

And so the two ethereal ladies hauled me off to another sitting room, where there were more questions and more tea. They stayed for a lot longer than half an hour.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nick has some pretty wack dreams. If you have any suggestions for the portrayal of the characters or the world, I'd love to hear them. I really love the interactions between Nick and Gatsby. Writing dialogue between friends is what comes easiest to me. Coming up with the code names for the types of alcohol was one of the parts where I had the most fun. Also, important question, what does Jordan Baker call Nick? Does she use "Nicky" like Daisy, just Nick, or something else entirely? I looked it up, but couldn't find anything. Thanks for reading <3!


	4. Reflections

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The gang's all here, so now they can talk about attempted murder and avoiding the law. But someone else is not too keen on going along with their plans.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have been working for 4 days (and nights) straight to get this update finished! I hope you all like it. As a warning, there will be homophobic slurs, language, etc. in this chapter.

“Darling, I want to hear everything.”

“Everything?”

“Everything.”

I had just escaped the clutches of the prying Inspector McKenzie, only to be faced with more questions the instant I sat down with Daisy and Jordan in yet another one of the sitting rooms that made up the maze of Gatsby’s house.

“Well?” Daisy prompted me again.

I sighed and sank back into the faintly lilac sofa Daisy and I were sharing. After giving the gold decorations on the ceiling a once-over, I turned back to my cousin. She was eagerly leaning towards me but still maintaining the poise of a lady, with her delicate hands neatly folded in her lap.

“Daisy, give him a break. He’s obviously exhausted,” Jordan came to my defense. She was perched in a large leather arm chair across from us. The white fabric of her golf outfit practically beamed in contrast to the dark leather. Daisy recoiled slightly at the admonishment, like a little girl being scolded.

“I’m sorry, Nick. We heard you were attacked, but not much else,” Daisy apologized, shrugging her shoulders.

“Gatsby telephoned us yesterday and told us what happened,” Jordan explained. Daisy squeezed her hands together in her lap at the mention of Gatsby and looked uncomfortable. I wondered if she had spoken to him.

“Did he…?” I trailed off. The entrance of a maid with tea cut my query short. I accepted a cup from the woman with a tight-lipped smile. As soon as she had finished serving my two guests and disappeared from the room, I set the beverage down on the low wooden coffee table in front of me.

“Did he tell you about Wilson?” I repeated in a low voice.

Jordan’s eyes widened from behind her teacup. She took a sip, then brought her cup to rest in her lap.

“Was he the one that attacked you?” she asked, guessing my meaning. A solemn nod from me confirmed her question.

“Wilson? Who’s Wilson?” Daisy chimed in. Her voice still had its lyrical quality, but now a hint of confusion joined her melodious tones. I suspected that she was more concerned about the fact that she was not in the know than the identity of my attacker. Jordan and I shared a look that acknowledged our shared secret.

“Well actually, we didn’t hear much of anything about the incident,” Jordan continued, opting to ignore Daisy, “Gatsby only said that some man had shot you. In fact, I don’t know if he himself knew exactly what was happening at the time. He sounded frazzled.” Daisy looked put off at this second mention of her lover.

“I’m glad you’re safe, Nicky.” Daisy reached for my hand and squeezed it.

“It’ll take more than a bullet wound to get rid of me,” I assured her, trying to project a confidence I didn’t feel.

“Where were you injured?” Jordan piped up with interest.

“My right shoulder.”

“Did the bullet break your collarbone?”

“Yes. Luckily, it went right through me.” Jay had so kindly informed me of these details before breakfast. Fortunately for me, my appetite had been so voracious that I wasn’t put off eating by his descriptions of my injury.

"You really should be wearing a sling,” Jordan said, frowning.

“Probably.” I had been trying to move my right arm and shoulder as little as possible. For once, my left-handedness was paying off. The efforts of my elementary school teachers to get me to use my right hand instead had ultimately failed, and I retained the use of my left hand as well as my right. But that didn’t make things easy. Before the day’s morning meal I had to be helped into my clothes by one of Gatsby’s man servants, which was a thoroughly embarrassing experience. I still can’t understand why anyone would want to undergo that ordeal multiple times every day.

“Daisy, give me your scarf,” Jordan ordered. My cousin gracefully untucked a silk scarf with subtle black and white stripes from around her neck and handed it to her friend. Jordan knelt in front of me so that she could fashion a makeshift sling around my right shoulder. Her slender hands moved quickly and expertly, trying to be gentle while getting the job done. When she had accomplished her task, Jordan looked up at me.

“I was a nurse during the war.” She shared this fact with a kind of disinterest that made it seem like we were discussing someone else’s life, and not her own. A small smile stretched her thin burgundy lips as she adjusted my tie. Giving me a light kiss on the cheek, she retreated back to her imposing armchair. It struck me then just how little I knew about Jordan. To me, she was Daisy’s childhood friend, a professional golfer from the familiar region of the Midwest, and an occasional liar who was alluring nonetheless. But besides a few other trivial details, that was the extent of my knowledge concerning Miss Jordan Baker. I felt disappointment not in her, but in myself.

_I’m meant to be her sweetheart and I hardly know her._

Jordan might not agree with my classification of us as sweethearts, but I was lacking better terms to describe our relationship. Then again, were we even in a relationship still? I didn’t know where things stood between the two of us after the events of the past couple days. My lack of interest in Jordan had been caused by the presence of other enigmas closer to home, which served to distract me.

“The material’s a bit thin, so that sling won’t last forever. You should really see a doctor sometime soon,” The lady of my thoughts interrupted. Jordan was posed in her seat like a ruler surveying her kingdom.

“I’ll try,” I acquiesced.

“You must make sure to take care of yourself,” Daisy chided.

“Daisy? Daisy, is that you?” a voice called from the other room. We all tensed at the sound of that voice, knowing who it belonged to. Several moments later, Gatsby swept into the room, looking handsome as ever in a fresh change of clothes. Far from his showy pink suit, he was now wearing a more modest gray suit with an olive green double breasted waistcoat and jet black tie. I assumed he had heard Daisy and Jordan’s entrance (how could he not have?), changed his outfit, and waited for the right moment to join the conversation.

“Daisy,” Gatsby breathed. He hovered on the threshold while Daisy watched him silently, then turned his attention to Jordan.

“Miss Baker.”

“Jay,” Jordan greeted in return. Jay made his way over to Daisy, his eyes fixed on her like a hawk on a mouse, while she watched him nervously. He broke their mutual gaze only for an instant, to reach for one of Daisy’s small hands and give it a tender kiss.

“My love.” Jay’s eyes burned with longing and adoration. Daisy, for her part, looked even more uneasy. His intensity was overwhelming.

“I’m so happy you’ve come back to me.”

“I came to see Nick.”

“And not me?” “Nick doesn’t ask for the impossible,” Daisy retorted, seeming to find a bit of courage. Gatsby’s eyes flickered sideways to observe me, still occupying the couch alongside Daisy. I didn’t like where this conversation was going. The less I was brought into the conflict, the better.

“You’re right. I owe you an apology.” Jay took both of Daisy’s hands and pulled her up to stand beside him.

“Daisy, I wanted too much from you. I see that now. It’s just that I’ve been waiting for such a long time…but to have your love now would be enough.” He was switching strategies, going for a softer approach. Whether this change of heart was genuine or a response to the encroaching danger of losing Daisy, I couldn’t tell.

“Oh, I-I don’t know, Jay.” Daisy was trembling, her beautiful voice breaking. She looked at me then, with an expression that said _help me_. I recalled her refusal to state her love for Gatsby during our prior conversation over the telephone. At a loss for what to do, I glanced at Jordan, but she was engrossed in watching the two lovers, like she was contemplating a scene in a play. Or a raging house fire.

Gatsby moved his hands to Daisy’s hips and leaned in closer to whisper something in her ear. Since I was only a few feet away, I was able to hear him say, “Please be mine again.”

“I’d like to, but…”

“I did say please,” Jay teased. Daisy took a step back, releasing herself from the confinement of his grip.

“But things have changed. I’m married and I can’t-"

“Oh, don’t tell me you would even consider going back to that bastard.” Jay’s voice had an edge to it that cautioned that defying him would be dangerous.

I already felt embarrassed by Jay’s displays of passion and intimacy, but now I sensed the discussion was about to get a lot more tense. I shot another meaningful look at Jordan, hoping she would invent some excuse that would allow the two of us to escape the room before it was too late, but she was still distracted by the drama playing out between Gatsby and Daisy. Daisy’s bottom lip quivered, as if she knew what she would say could upset Gatsby.

“Being with Tom has certain advantages-"

“Advantages?!”

“-and he’s always been good to me.”

“You think leaving you to go sleep with other women is him being good to you?” Daisy was silent. She cocked her head to one side, then gazed back at Gatsby with a pitiful expression.

“Daisy, you wouldn’t,” Gatsby started, incredulous, “you can’t leave me for him.”

“I want you too, Jay, it’s just-"

“Not only is he a total asshole, the man’s a murderer. A bloody psychopath!”

“What?” Daisy exclaimed in disbelief.

“It’s true! He tried to kill me and Nick.” Jay motioned to me, desperate for something to save his case.

“You know, old sport,” he said, “you were there.”

That was it. If I wasn’t going to be allowed to leave, I might as well take control of the situation, since I was apparently the only rational person in the room. The faster things were explained, the quicker the drama would be over. I briskly walked over to the doorway and shut the door firmly. More information than I would have liked had already leaked out of that opening, but the rest of our talk would remain in the room.

“I’m afraid what he says is true,” I confirmed.

“What?” Daisy repeated.

“Why don’t you sit down for this. Both of you,” I amended. Daisy did as I instructed and reclaimed her spot on the lilac sofa. Gatsby begrudgingly took his place beside her. He reached out for Daisy’s hand, but she swatted him away. I took a deep breath.

“Daisy, that woman you ran over- that was Tom’s mistress.” The only one to react to this statement was Gatsby, who looked back and forth between me and Daisy with a worried countenance. Daisy stared at me impassively, as did Jordan. I assumed the revelation that Daisy had been the driver on that consequential night was not new to Jordan.

“Her name was Myrtle Wilson. She was a mechanic’s wife. Yesterday, her husband, George Wilson, came over intending to kill Gatsby.”

“How did he find him?” Jordan was intrigued.

“He knew about the yellow car. He had seen Tom driving it. So he went to Tom, and Tom told him Gatsby had killed Myrtle,” I explained, “Or at least, I think he did.” Daisy closed her eyes and bit her lip, letting out a deep breath through her nose.

“He _sent_ Wilson. He was trying to kill us. Remove me from the equation,” Gatsby growled vehemently.

“Jay, we don’t know that,” Daisy defended halfheartedly.

“He could have stopped Wilson,” I pointed out, “or called the police.”

“So what now?” The question rose from Jordan’s lips.

“As I see it, we have two options. We can either go out there, tell McKenzie everything and possibly face charges, or we can agree to never discuss this again. ”

“We’re not telling anyone. Obviously,” Jordan drawled. “I was asking what we’re going to do about Tom.”

“He’s dangerous. You can’t go back to him,” Gatsby addressed Daisy.

“What else can I do?”

“Come away with me. Isn’t that what we’ve always wanted, to be together, just the two of us?”

“But I have Pammy,” Daisy protested.

“She has a nanny, doesn’t she? Or you could have someone else take care of her. Nick? Jordan?” Gatsby looked between the two of us eagerly.

“Count me out. I’m no babysitter,” Jordan responded, with a razor-sharp, deterring look at Gatsby.

“Neither am I.” There was no way I was about to get saddled with a ten year old little girl. Even if I had been completely out of my mind and was willing to take one on, I had a full time job.

“Boarding school!” Satisfaction gleamed in Gatsby’s eyes, like he had just discovered a hidden treasure.

“Well...” Daisy hesitated to reject his proposal.

“Think about it! I can take you anywhere in the world: Cuba, Jamaica, maybe Paris.” Gatsby tossed out the names of places frantically.

“Those all sound awfully far away.”

“Canada, then. Or Florida?”

“That isn’t the issue, Jay.”

An unsteady silence filled the room, suffocating us with its weight.

“I’m feeling the need to freshen up,” Jordan interjected bluntly. “Nick, perhaps you could show me the way to the powder room.”

“Of course.” I held the door open for her, then quickly closed it behind us, leaving Gatsby and Daisy. Jordan didn’t need me to tell her where the powder room was; she had been to Gatsby’s house enough times to know her way around. As she stalked down the hall, I said, “Your timing was a little late.”

“But Nicky,” she called over her shoulder, mimicking Daisy, “If I had done it earlier, we wouldn’t have gotten to hear all the delicious details.”

“Unlike you, I don’t care for gossip.”

“What else are we supposed to do to pass the time?”

We reached the nearest bathroom and Jordan entered without closing the door. Leaning towards the large, circular mirror hanging over the sink, she produced a slim stick from one of her white pockets and began applying a shiny new coat of dark cherry lipstick. I waited outside the doorway, watching her. When I was younger I had been fascinated by the way my older sisters had transformed themselves before my eyes in the space of only a few minutes.

“I just want this disaster to come to an end.” Not only was I exhausted physically, I felt sick and tired of the mental games my friends kept playing, ones that I was being forced to participate in.

“It might be over very soon.”

“You think Daisy will go with Gatsby?”

“She might whine and fuss, but secretly, she loves the idea of being swept away by a knight in shining armor.”

“And of course, you yourself harbor no such romantic delusions.”

The lipstick wand was returned to Jordan’s pocket.

“Once upon a time, I would’ve. But life’s not a fairy tale,” she told the mirror.

What was it that had changed Jordan? Was it age alone, or had something else contributed? Whatever it was, I could tell that behind her hard, slick veneer Jordan had once been a sensitive person.

“Nick, could you help me get some of this lipstick off?”

I grabbed a napkin from a stack next to the sink and raised it to Jordan’s lips. She gripped my wrist lightly.

“Not like that.” And then she kissed me, her hot lips pressed softly to mine. The sticky wax stuck or mouths together, so that it seemed as if we would never come apart. After what felt like forever, Jordan took a step back, a coy smile appearing on her face. Her eyes were still fixed on my lips as she used her index finger to wipe at the corners of my mouth. With her other hand she ran her fingers through my hair a few times, pushing strands into place. It felt nice to be on the receiving end of these displays of affection, to know someone who cared was close to me.

“Perfect,” Jordan pronounced.

I looked in the mirror and was surprised to find that I didn’t look terrible. Not bad, actually. Maybe even a little good. I tried not to blush at the thought and felt ashamed of myself. Jordan had been flirting with me. It was a cute trick, nothing more. Men like myself didn’t wear lipstick. I used the napkin I still clutched in my hand to wipe off the waxy paste.

“We should check on the others,” I muttered.

“You missed a spot.” Jordan removed another smudge from my bottom lip.

I swiftly deserted the bathroom and Jordan trooped after me. When we reached the salon containing the remaining two members of our fellowship, low voices could be heard from behind the closed door. Jordan put an ear to the mahogany, trying to make out what they were saying.

“Hang on.” I grabbed two whiskey glasses from a nearby table, handed one to Jordan, and put mine against the door.

“Clever boy,” she praised, positioning her own cup next to her ear. But my brilliant strategy didn’t do much, for now we could only hear parts of words at the endings of unintelligible murmurs. Phrases like _commitment_ and _anything for you_ forced themselves past the wooden door. When the whispers stopped for an extended period of time, Jordan carefully replaced our glasses on the table and we dared to enter the room. Gatsby was sitting on the sofa next to Daisy with one arm around her. She was still subdued, but looked more comfortable in Gatsby’s arms than she had before. Gatsby grinned as we walked in, signalling that he had won the argument.

“Do you want to tell them, or should I?”

“Why don’t you do it,” mused Daisy, contemplating a spot on the rug beneath her feet.

“Daisy and I will be traveling to Havana.”

“When?”

“Tonight.” Gatsby was triumphant.

“Tonight?” I cried.

“A bit sooner than I expected,” Jordan chipped in.

“Yes, well I happened to know that there’s an ocean liner leaving for Havana from New York tonight.”

“What about the police investigation?” I pointed out. “They wouldn’t want you leaving now.”

“You were the last witness they needed to interview. Not that it’s much of an investigation, seeing as Wilson pretty much confessed,” Gatsby argued.

“Wilson confessed? How could he do that?”

“The usual way. Not that he made much sense-" Gatsby saw the bewildered expression on my face and stopped mid sentence.

"Oh…oh, you thought-”

“I thought he was dead.”

“He's a little injured, but alive.”

“So I didn’t kill him?”

“No. I’m sorry, old sport, I should’ve told you sooner.”

A weight had been lifted off my shoulders that I didn’t know was there in the first place. Relief coursed through my veins, making my legs wobbly. I didn’t have anyone’s blood on my hands. Well, not exactly. I didn’t have innocent blood on my hands. What would they have said about me?

_Nick Carraway. He killed a man_.

“He’s still completely insane, of course.”

_Insane, but not dead._

“Daisy darling, we should find some outfits for you to wear in Havana,” Jordan suggested, in an attempt to mobilize her friend.

“I’d like that,” Daisy answered, looking up for the first time since I had walked into the room.

“There are clothes in the guest bedroom upstairs,” Gatsby told her. She gave him a light peck on the cheek and then absconded with Jordan out to the hall. When she was gone Gatsby gave me another enthusiastic smile, but I could see the cracks in his optimistic appearance. I was not the only one who was worried that this endeavor wouldn’t go as planned.

\---

Our secret-bound coterie reconvened in the late afternoon. I had spent the day accompanying Gatsby around New York City, helping him “get his affairs in order,” as he had put it. We had gone to the local police station so that Gatsby could... _encourage_ the chief commissioner have the investigation wrapped up quickly, and to the ticket office to ensure Daisy and Gatsby had a spot on the _RMS Carmania_ , which would sail to Cuba that night. Jay and I had even made a quick stop at Meyer Wolfsheim’s abode, where the two talked for only a few minutes. I stayed outside to mind the car, as I was concerned it would be stolen if left alone in the shady, smoky neighborhood. Jay didn’t expect me to look after his business while he was away.

“But maybe you could check in on the house every once in a while,” he had said.

“Why?”

“I want to make sure there aren’t any occurrences of suspicious behavior while I’m gone.”

“You want me to spy on your servants?”

“That’s a rather crude way of putting it, but yes.” So Gatsby shared my distrust of Wolfsheim and his people.

“Try to be subtle about it,” he instructed, “pretend like you’re there to water the plants.”

I laughed. “I will water the plants as inconspicuously as possible.”

When we reached the mansion, Gatsby hurried upstairs to pack his own suitcase. I joined Jordan in the dining room and began wolfing down some minuscule triangle-shaped cucumber sandwiches which had been left out on an ornate platter. I usually associated the sandwiches with the pretentiousness of the wealthy, but I tolerated them at tea parties because the crusts had been cut off. After swallowing a mouthful of sandwich Jordan relayed how she spent her day reassuring Daisy that she wasn’t making a drastic mistake.

“She made me promise to look after Pammy, make sure Tom’s not hurting her,” Jordan said, rolling her eyes.

“Like I’d want to visit that household regularly.”

“I’m not sure boarding school is such a foolproof plan,” I contributed.

“Do you want kids, Nick?” Jordan asked, licking a stray bit of cream cheese and mayonnaise off the side of her thumb.

“I’ve always had a hard time imagining myself with a family.”

We heard the heavy thuds of footsteps on the stairs. Gatsby appeared at the bottom of the stairs with a pair of suitcases in his hands. He set them down on the tiled floor of the foyer and ran a hand through his hair.

“I’ve asked my valet to have the car brought around,” he stated. I offered to help him with the luggage, using my non-injured arm, and Jordan announced her intention to assist Daisy. Gatsby and I alighted on the front steps and I was reminded of how only a day ago Gatsby had desperately begged me to stay. Now he couldn’t wait to leave.

“When will I see you again, Gatsby?”

“It’s Jay, remember?” His warm smile faded as he considered my question.

“I don’t know, old sport.”

“But I’ll try to send you a telegram, or give you a call while I’m there,” Jay assured.

A car came careening around the corner of the house and onto the gravel drive. It wasn’t the incriminating yellow car from before, but instead an open-topped black one. When we had stored the suitcases in the trunk, Jay gave me a friendly clap on the back and said, “I’m going to miss you, Nick.”

“Me too.”

Daisy, wearing a tan trench coat, came tumbling down the steps with Jordan in tow, escorted by two men carrying a large trunk. I whisked my cousin away before she could reach Gatsby.

“If he gets to be too much,” I told her with a pointed look, “You can always give me a call. I’d be happy to help.”

“You’re sweet, Nicky.” She gave me a kiss on the cheek, imitating her earlier move with Gatsby. I walked her to the car and helped her in. My feelings about Daisy were constantly changing. The previous morning I had hated her for what she had done to Myrtle, but now I pitied Daisy. Seeing her so obviously vulnerable made me want to protect her. She was being pulled back and forth between men, between lovers, without much power of her own. The problem wasn’t that she was incapable of doing anything to save herself, but that she simply didn’t know what to do.

A chauffeur was driving the car, a wise decision in my opinion, so Jay slid into the backseat next to Daisy. Jordan came up behind me and slid and arm around my waist.

“Don’t get into too much trouble while I’m gone,” Jay ordered.

I sighed like a petulant child. “Yes, mom.”

“And be nice to your sister,” Daisy added. I cracked up at that. Jordan didn’t find the joke as funny as I did.

“You don’t want to miss your boat.”

“You’re right.” Jay gave the driver a tap on the shoulder. The man gunned the engine and the tires squealed in disagreement as the car took off.

“Goodbye!” I called.

“Goodbye!” The answer floated back to me on the wind. The sleek horseless carriage raced through the golden evening which would soon turn to regal twilight. It rounded the hedge at the end of the drive, and I wondered if that would be the last I ever saw of my two friends. There was a very real possibility that they might never return from Cuba. Their ship could sink, like the tragic accident that had claimed the _RMS Titanic_. Or they could decide they preferred Havana to New York. There was certainly enough alcohol there for Jay to start a business.

“Let’s go back inside. I want to get a glass of water; I feel a headache coming on,” I said into the hot evening air.

After I had procured two glasses of water, one for myself and one for Jordan, I slouched into an overstuffed chair. The police had finally vacated the premises and the long marble halls of the mansion were silent. But without Gatsby in it, the house felt wrong.

“I need to go home,” I realized.

“Mind if I come with?” Jordan requested. I nodded. Now was not the time to be alone.

When we reached my cottage, I took two aspirin and lay down on the couch in the living room, my right arm still slung across my chest. Along with the headache, nausea had begun to affect my stomach. Jordan felt my forehead.

“You don’t have a fever,” she noted.

“I think I’m just tired. It’s been a long day.” _Just tired_ was an understatement. I was exhausted, and now that night was approaching anxiety was beginning to wash over me again.

“I apologize for not being a very good host. I think there are some newspapers over there if you want to read.” I indicated a side table.

“That’s alright. I’ll stay awhile.” Jordan picked up a newspaper and positioned herself in a comfy chair. While she perused the pages, I fell into a pain-laced, half-asleep state. We stayed like that for a length of time indeterminable to me until our peace was interrupted by a harsh, unwelcome knocking. When the knocking didn’t stop, Jordan went to answer the door. The ensuing conversation gave me a foreboding sense of déjà vu.

“Where is she?”

“Where’s who?”

“My whore wife. Don’t play dumb with me.”

“Oh. She’s not here.”

I heard the sound of the door slamming and sat up, fully awake.

“Who is it?”

“Tom,” Jordan mouthed back. The knocking resumed and became louder.

“Carraway! I know you’re in there!”

“Shit,” I muttered, trudging through my living room and into the hall. I waved at Jordan to step back into the kitchen entryway and opened the front door. There was the hulking, brooding mass of Tom Buchanan, dressed in a dark gray tweed suit.

“What do you want, Tom?” I demanded gruffly.

“It’s Daisy. She’s been gone for far too long.” He noticed my sling and frowned.

“What happened to your arm?”

_What happened to your arm?_ It was such a simple question, and yet its innocence was so infuriating. Any answer I gave would be fraught with emotion, so I chose not to answer. Instead I slammed the door in Tom’s face. Stupidly, I didn’t think to lock it, so there was nothing to prevent Tom from turning the handle and letting himself in. Which he did.

“You know, I was willing to tolerate your deceptions before, seeing how I wouldn’t want you snitching about me and my affairs, but now the two of you are being downright rude,” Tom growled, slinking into the hall menacingly.

“I’ll ask again. Where is my wife?”

“Gone,” Jordan said defiantly.

“Gone where?”

“We won’t tell you,” she challenged. Tom took a threatening step towards her, launching me into action. I grabbed a fancy glass ashtray (empty of course, since I didn’t smoke) from a side table and held it out in front of me like a weapon.

“Get back,” I snarled. Tom deflated a little, some of his rage leaving him.

“Nick, try to understand. That son of a bitch, Gatsby-he’s dangerous. The man’s a murderer. He killed Myrtle.” If I had been in a relatively calm state of mind I could have appreciated the irony of how Tom’s statements mirrored Gatsby’s, but I was so livid I could only focus on Tom’s hypocrisy.

“How dare you call Gatsby a murderer. You’re the one who sent a crazed lunatic to assassinate him!” Tom paled.

“How did-"

“You wanted to know what happened to my arm?” I continued, ignoring him.

“Wilson shot me, that’s what happened.”

“I never meant to-"

“Save it,” I snapped.

“How could you do something like that, Tom?” Jordan pleaded.

“I had already lost Myrtle. I couldn’t lose Daisy too. But you know the worst part? My wife was going to ditch me for a fucking fairy.”

I frowned at Tom. My ashtray dipped slightly.

“The man’s a faggot. One of those god damn queers.”

“You think Gatsby is a homosexual?”

“He wears a pink suit, Nick, _pink_.” He said this like the color pink the most outrageous thing he’d ever heard of.

“Besides, he smiles too much and never acts like a real man.”

“That’s ridiculous.” I knew I shouldn’t prolong the conversation, but I couldn’t stop myself from saying, “If Gatsby was interested in men, then what would he want with Daisy?”

“Fags are degenerates,” Tom spat. “They try to destroy what we have because they can’t have it themselves.”

“Where did you learn that bullshit, in one of your crackpot books?” Jordan taunted.

“Get the hell out of here, Tom. I’ve had enough,” I commanded, brandishing my ashtray.

“I’m not leaving till you tell me where Daisy went with that pansy,” he sneered.

“Get out or I’ll make you.” I laid down my ultimatum.

“You wouldn’t. You’ve always been a weakling.” His cruel smirk loomed over me. His insults to me, Jordan and Gatsby hadn't really hurt me, but this last one that gave me pause. It was partially true, I had been a pushover for most of my life. But not today. I tightened my grip on the ashtray, and then whacked it into the side of Tom’s face as hard as I could. The sharp glass cut a thin line across his cheekbone that started to ooze blood the moment I finished my swing. Tom’s broken nose started to leak blood too. The act of violence had been cathartic, but it made me apprehensive for what might come next. But Tom didn’t retaliate.

“I could call the police right now and have you arrested, Carraway.”

“And I could call them and tell them about your trespassing, threats, and failure to notify officials of a considerable danger to the public.” And because I was feeling extra bold I added, “Don’t fuck with me, _Buchanan_.” Tom tried to sneer again but with his broken nose it only made him look stupid.

“You’ll regret this,” he hurled angrily, retreating out the door.

“I better not see you again,” I yelled into the night.

I closed the door and set the bloody, cracked ashtray down. As I examined the specks of scarlet that had accumulated on its rim, I felt a knot in my stomach rise. Throwing Jordan a panicked glance, I rushed to the bathroom where I threw up my guts, and my feelings along with them, into the sink. The last thing I saw before the retching began was my own pale, shaken face in the mirror.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I finally got to include all the main characters! yay! Nick and Gatsby don't hang out together much in this chapter, but they do have their moments. Things are going to get very interesting soon; I already have lots of ideas for what I'm going to write next. I will probably not update again until mid-July because I'm about to get very busy with various summer activities and jobs. As always, I love hearing what you think about my work. Thank you for all of your kind comments, and happy Pride Month!


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